


The Last Kingdom - Finan’s Agro in Aylesburg

by RearAdmiral



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Blood and Injury, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RearAdmiral/pseuds/RearAdmiral
Summary: Set in Series 4 - when everyone seems to have converged on the Mercian town of Aylesburg to sort out who would take over from the dead Lord Aethelred and King Edward starts trying to boss it. Uhtred decides to leave the city to go recruit an army for Aethelflaed, and he leaves Finan on his own outside Aethelflaed’s room as guard. He’s a handy swordsman but is only human and the situation quickly turns dangerous.
Relationships: Finan & Sihtric, Finan & Sihtric & Uhtred, Finan & Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Finan/Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Osferth & Sihtric (The Last Kingdom)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	1. A Sunny Start

Finan sat on the small stool outside Aethelflaed’s room where he had been sat for most of the morning - he was bored out of his skull, the dull throb in his head the only practical reminder of how much better the day had started, in an ale house, with Osferth, Sihtric and Pyrlig, drinking to their new found status as advisors to the recently appointed Lord of Mercia, Uhtred.

That self-declared status had lasted for as long as it took Uhtred to hand power over to Aethelflaed, all of a few minutes, and the tension in the city of Aylesburg had spiked as Edward raged and ranted, outwitted as he had been by the pagan. Edward’s household guard had started muscling their way along the streets, shoving sharp tipped swords under the chins of startled villagers and taking control of the city gates.

Finan sighed, and leant his head back against the wall, twirling the tip of his seax absentmindedly into the knee of his breeches. Uhtred had left him here in Aylesburg to guard Athelflaed, ostensibly from her brother, the King himself, whilst Uhtred rode into the heart of Mercia to raise the fyrd, taking Osferth and Sihtric with him. Finan had felt sorry for Osferth, he’d been hacking his guts up outside The Goose only moments before climbing clumsily up onto his horse and hanging on rather than riding out, as Uhtred galloped from the city’s closing main gate.

And now Finan was alone. And bored, and slightly hungover. And bored. He was a quick swordsman but he wasn’t entirely convinced that he could single-handedly protect Athelflaed from her brother if Edward did decide to seize her. He would simply send numbers. But then Edward couldn’t be seen to be man-handling the newly appointed ruler of Mercia, and his own sister at that. The King was hampered by the delicate politics of the situation and both Finan’s and Athelflaed’s safety teetered on that very narrow edge.

Finan sighed again and closed his eyes, the sun’s rays were stretching through the archway at the end of the corridor and warming the top of his head as he leaned back against the wall. Finan was bored of the politics swirling around Mercia and how the plotting and games of powerful men always seemed to catch Uhtred in their webby intrigue.

He preferred the game he’d been playing with Sihtric earlier that morning. Three cups and a white stone had mesmerised the tipsy Danish boy. Sihtric’s eyes were unwaveringly locked onto the downturned cups, his forehead furrowed in drunken concentration as Finan, grinning, slid them around the table, slowly swapping and changing their places until Finan asked the Dane to choose the one that hid the stone. Sihtric had looked to Osferth for help, but the monk had been too drunk to assist, in fact there was limited room on the table for the cups to move because Osferth was slumped across it, face down on his folded arms.

And Sihtric was becoming more frustrated with every incorrect guess he made. As forfeit, he was obliged to take a gulp of ale with each wrong cup he selected. Finan smiled to himself as he remembered the look on Sihtric’s face once his mind started to consider some form of magic. His mistaken guesses had resulted in imbibing two full mugs of ale in quick succession, Finan clumsily knocking Osferth as he leaned across the table to place his finger under Sihtric’s ale mug to assist with his drinking. When all three cups proved empty on more than one occasion, his eyes had gone wide and then he had narrowed them, because this was Finan after all, and he had taken his time in staring at the Irishman, trying to figure the trick. His blue eyes had shone and his mouth had broken into a wide generous smile when Finan bared his lips to reveal the little white stone held between his teeth.

Finan had shouted for another jug of ale and they had just been about to move onto arm-wrestling, Finan trying to slide Osferth further along the table to make room, when all hell had broken loose outside as Edward’s troops started shouting and clanking about in their mail.

Finan could hear footsteps and he opened his eyes and turned his head to see Athelhelm was making his way along the corridor towards Athelflaed’s door, staring solemnly at Finan as he approached. Three household guards fanned out behind him, their red cloaks wafting gently backwards as they moved.

Finan stood slowly and stepped forwards a few paces, so that the men approaching would be required to stop before they reached Athelflaed’s door. He kept his seax in his left hand and rested the other on the hilt of his sword. He wore no mail, just his sleeveless leather tunic, which was fine for arm-wrestling Sihtric, or lounging around sunny corridors babysitting a princess but it would offer little protection against three members of Athelhelm’s household guard, all of whom were wearing shiny sand-scrubbed silver mail under their cloaks.

Athelhelm was Edward’s most powerful and wealthiest Lord, his daughter was married to the King, and his grandson was the aethling. He was as clever as he was ambitious and had once been Uhtred’s friend. Uhtred’s strengthening alliance with Athelflaed, and by inference the support and protection he and she afforded to Edward’s oldest bastard son Athelstan, had shifted this dynamic. Uhtred was now firmly categorised as an enemy and a very real threat in Athelhelm’s mind. Which meant that Finan was also firmly categorised as an enemy in Athelhelm’s mind as he came face to face with the Irishman in the narrow corridor.

And Athelhelm had just watched Uhtred and two of his men ride out from the city’s walls, so Uhtred’s Irishman was alone in Aylesburg for the time being.

Finan kept quiet as Athelhelm reached him, and the ealdorman tightened his lips together when the expected greeting and rank was not forthcoming from the Irishman. But he did not comment on it, instead greeting Finan smoothly with a smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes.

‘Finan,’ he said, ‘What are you doing outside the Lady Aethelflaed’s quarters?’

Oh this was trouble, thought Finan sourly. Whether this was a pre-planned confrontation or just a chance sighting of a lone warrior in an empty corridor, this would not end well.

‘Lord,’ Finan spoke quietly, tipping his head in acknowledgement of Athelhelm’s rank. Maybe he could be a political creature?

‘I am here to take the Lady to her mother.’ He announced, and with that he stepped backwards and sharply rapped on Aethelflaed’s door with the hilt of his seax. ‘Lady!’ He shouted, head tilted back towards her door but dark eyes firmly fixed on Athelhelm’s.

‘Are you nearly ready Lady?’ He shouted, “Lady Aelswith was insistent that you come now!’

Athelhelm was wrong-footed and his eyes narrowed as he watched this play out. The men behind him shifted from foot to foot as they also realised their objective was thwarted for now.

If Finan was about to get hauled away by Athelhelm’s men, he couldn’t leave Athelflaed alone in her room unprotected, but if he could get her to her mother she would be less vulnerable than she was now. Pyrlig and Aldhelm were still in Aylesburg, so the princess was not without a few allies in the town, it would be the best situation that Finan could engineer on his own.

He needed Athelflaed to play along with this though and he risked turning his back on the guards as he heard the door bolts being released and the door opening. He glowered his eyes at her as soon as her head appeared around the door and she then spotted Athelhelm. She caught on quickly and delivered her lines in the subterfuge with no hesitation.

“I’m coming Finan,’ she said, looking flustered, ‘There’s no need to shout,’ which prompted raised eyebrows from the Irishman, and she had the quick-wittedness to grab a cloak as she made to leave her room.

She slid behind Finan, who stood tall in front of the ealdorman and she stood on her toes to meet Athelhelm’s shrewd eyes over Finan’s shoulder.

‘Lord Athelhelm,’ she said demurely, ‘I hope I am not giving you a wasted journey, but my mother is insistent I visit her in her rooms, did you need to speak with me?’ As she spoke she took several steps backwards along the corridor, still up on her toes.

Athelhelm recovered his strategy, ‘On the contrary lady, I must insist that you accompany me to see the King, he has equally been most insistent.’

And there it was, a plan to snatch the Lady Aethelflaed, on the orders of the King, or maybe not on the orders of the King, maybe without the knowledge of Edward at all, which was an even more dangerous situation.

‘Oh I was brought up in Ireland to always obey me ma above me brother Lord,’ Finan said in a low quiet voice.

Finan’s hand imperceptibly tightened around the hilt of his sword, and his muscles tensed across his back and arms as he prepared for the next move. Athelhelm had a choice to make, send his guards to burst through Finan to make a physical grab for Aethelflaed, or stand down and watch for the next opportunity.

And then to Athelflaed without looking behind him, Finan said, ‘Lady, your mother was very clear that she needed Aldhelm and Pyrlig to go to her quarters too.’

‘Of course, thank you Finan.’ Aethelflaed replied politely, ‘I will fetch them from the inn on my way past.’

She hesitated then, ‘And Uhtred will be back shortly Finan, I will ask him to come find you as soon as he returns.’ And with that he heard her feet hurry along the corridor and out into the sunshine at the end.


	2. The Corridor Clash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finan has to deal with Athelhelm trying to snatch Edward’s sister so he defends the corridor for as long as he can.

Athelhelm’s eyes narrowed as he returned his gaze to Finan. He looked him over from head to toe, taking in the scars on his arms, the seax held loosely by his side, the hand on his sword hilt, and a sly smile played across his lips as he anticipated this new prize and the political leverage it could afford him. 

‘We are both men of action Finan,’ he began in a threatening tone. 

‘Are we Lord?’ Interrupted Finan, ‘I have seen you keep your arse in your saddle as you’ve watched a battle Lord, but I have never seen you fight.’ 

Athelhelm flushed at the slight but kept his anger in check. 

“We both know what’s going to happen now Irishman,’ he continued, his voice taut as a bow string as he spoke through gritted teeth. 

‘Well I have me own plans here,’ Finan said, pausing a beat before supplying ‘Lord’, and as he spoke he drew his sword. The three guards followed suit. 

‘Finan,’ Athelhelm said in an almost cajoling, reasonable tone, raising both his hands as if to disperse the tension, and stepping back to allow two of the guards through in front of him. ‘Let’s not spill blood unnecessarily today, let my men take you to the pig sty and chain you up like a pig, and then we can see what Lord Uhtred is prepared to do to have you released.’ He paused and smiled thinly. 

And then, as if he’d just had an interesting thought he added, ‘You can sit there and reminisce about your time in Iceland crouched as a starving shivering slave in the pig sty of your slave owner......’ 

And those words cut through Finan’s soul as Athelhelm knew they would, and he saw the anger and hurt flicker in Finan’s eyes as the Irishman realised that Uhtred must have told Athelhelm about their time as slaves, and Finan let out a howl and took two long strides forward to engage the two household guards who stood side by side in the hallway. 

Finan was quick, and landed a few scratches on the first guard, but this man was huge. He was too big in the confines of the corridor to make his muscles and strength count as much as they could, and his sword swings were restricted too by the man at his side. But his sword was a massive shiny slab of iron and his two-handed swings, even hampered as they were, were still jarring, sending violent reverberations up Finan’s sword arm and sending him back along the corridor. 

Whilst parrying the swings of the larger man, Finan was also trying to keep the smaller guard at bay with his seax held out in front of him but he was running out of room as he back-stepped along the corridor. Finan couldn’t yield so much ground that these troops spilled out into the sunlight and straight into Aethelflaed, he needed to give her time to recruit Aldhelm and Pyrlig from the inn, and get across the square to her mother’s rooms, where she would hopefully then barricade herself in. 

So he stopped moving backwards and instead suddenly stepped to his side, dodging the latest swing of the larger man’s sword, and putting his back to one wall. He had closed the distance between himself and the smaller man, and had brought him into the range of his seax. Finan’s seax was as long as his forearm and sharpened to a vicious edge, good for close up work. Finan leaned forward, ducking inside the range of the man’s sword, and jabbed hard, feeling the knife slice up into the man’s armpit, travelling through flesh until the hilt stopped further travel. The man screamed and tried to tuck himself into a ball, but Finan shoved him hard into the path of the giant household guard as he collapsed gasping, and the bigger man was impeded for a few vital seconds as he had to disentangle himself from the dying guard at his feet. 

The third guard, who until now had stood redundant beside Athelhelm, stared in disbelief as he realised this scuffle had suddenly become deadly serious and he was now due to step up. 

The bigger man had stepped clear of his comrade, and continued to land blows on Finan’s sword, and sweat poured down Finan’s face as he absorbed the sheer violence of the swings, trying to hold his ground. He parried and dodged, and lunged towards the two guards when he could, but he took a deep slash to the inside of his sword arm and it was all he could do to keep hold of his weapon, the blood scurrying and pumping down his forearm and greasing his hand and sword hilt. 

He caught a glimpse of Athelhelm, stood with his hands clasped together as if in prayer, an excited dark look in his eyes. Finan had seen that look before in the eyes of men who were sadistic bastards, who delighted in cruelty and violence for the sheer joy of it. Athelhelm now stooped to pick up the sword of the dead guard, but it wasn’t obvious if he intended to use it or whether he was simply excited by the heft of it in his hand. With his flushed face and parted lips he certainly looked entertained enough. 

And then in the next attack Finan was able to land a kick in the giant’s groin, and smash his bloody sword hilt up into the man’s nose and mouth as he bent double and hit the floor face first. He felt a blade make contact with his right thigh, jabbing before tearing horizontally across it, and he felt the fingers of his wounded arm start to tingle and lose contact with his sword hilt. His injured arm gave up on him after the blow to the man’s face, and hung down by his side. 

He was now obliged to parry a full length sword with just his seax, in his left hand, but this last guard lacked the size or the skill of his two comrades, and his enthusiasm had been dented by having witnessed the fate of his friends. Finan held his spot in the corridor before suddenly launching forwards and ramming the remaining guard back into the wall, and viciously head butting him with all the force he could muster. The man’s eyelids dropped shut instantaneously and he slid unconscious down the wall onto the floor. 

Finan wasn’t the political fox that Athelhelm was, but he wasn’t stupid either. It had not been lost on him that in this scuffle, Athelhelm had not shouted the alarm once, or called for reinforcements, even now, when his three protectors were dead or unconscious on the floor, and whilst Finan, chest heaving, stood just ten feet back from him, covered in blood, a weapon still just about held in each hand. So did Athelhelm already feel he had Finan where he wanted him? Had Finan already screwed this up and played straight into this oily bastard’s hands? 

He couldn’t just stand there waiting for Athelhelm’s next move, so he sheathed his seax, shakily returned his long sword to its scabbard with blood slicked fingers, and turned and jogged back the length of the corridor towards the open archway at the end.


	3. Hiding from Athelhelm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finan, wounded and alone in Aylesburg, has to hide from Athelhelm’s men as they search for the Irishman.

‘Shite, shite shite,’ Finan mumbled as he staggered out into the courtyard, holding his injured arm close to his side. This run and hide strategy that had come into his brain would be all over the moment he was spotted by any of Edward’s Wessex boys, and they were dotted all over the place. None of them were on high alert, subduing Mercian townsfolk wasn’t the most demanding of tasks and most were lounging in the heat of the sun, but there was enough of them, and one shout from Aethelhelm would change things up dramatically.

Finan slowed to a walk and straightened up as best he could, concealing his limp and feeling light-headed as he tried to forge a straight path across the courtyard towards The Goose. His head was spinning and he could feel the blood dripping freely from his fingertips. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, wincing, to hide the cut on his forearm and shouldered his way through the door of the ale house.

Why wasn’t Aethelhelm pursuing him? Why wasn’t he shouting the alarm and continuing his attack? Unless he had totally over-reached himself, unless he had no authority to snatch Aethelflaed and attack one of Uhtred’s men, unless he feared Edward’s reaction and the situation had spiralled beyond him. Finan’s head was too fuzzy to think through what Athelhelm was plotting, he was wounded and alone in a hostile town, he needed to go to ground. 

The inn was quiet and shaded, the Wessex troops had jobs to do and had been shooed out at Edward’s command earlier on that morning, and any Mercian locals had scuttled home as this power struggle between brother and sister had threatened homes and family.

The barmaid, who had patiently listened to Finan’s loud announcements that morning that he was now a Lord’s advisor, and who had provided jugs of the strongest ale to his table of friends for the first few hours of the day, now glanced up from behind the counter, and blanched with shock as she recognised the Irishman and took in the state of him.

He didn’t want to compromise her in anyway, and made to stagger back out again as he realised his mistake, but she made reassuring noises and rushed around the wooden bar to grab him by his arm. She led him through to the back and out to The Goose’s tiny yard.

What there was of the yard was almost entirely taken up with ale barrels, apart from a narrow walkway left through the middle to access the stables. The large wooden oak barrels, some in single file, some piled on top of each other were heavy and strong, and the barmaid led Finan towards a single row that looked, front on, like they were backed flush against the wall. His vision was blurring, he was blinking hard and shaking his head to try and clear it, swaying as he did so, his right hand and arm was throbbing, his thigh wound was deep and slicked with blood.

Finan was losing his grip on where he was and who he was with but was thankfully pliant in the barmaid’s hands. His head hung low and his dark hair obscured his face but she could see the skin of his bare arms had no colour to them, he was losing too much blood. Her small strong hands gripped his biceps and she turned him to face her and backed him gently towards the end barrel. She leaned him against it as he held his wounded arm close to his side with his other hand. She bent down, keeping one eye on Finan, and she ripped at her apron and tore a strip. She coaxed him gently to let go of his arm so that she could wrap the strip of cloth tightly around the gash in his forearm, and knotted it. As she did so a shout went up from the courtyard over the wall and roof of the Goose, causing her to glance anxiously behind her to the back door. She could hear the chinking of armour and orders being shouted from the road in front of the inn, and could sense the energy and tension building along with the heat of the morning.

She tugged and pulled Finan then to make him take his own weight again and then manoeuvred him slightly to the wall side of the end barrel. There was a small gap, no wider than the breadth of Finan’s own shoulders, and she needed him to back into it. She was whispering to him as insistently as she dared and when he just stared glassily back at her, swaying, she slapped his face and pulled him sharply down into a crouch. He winced but didn’t resist.

‘Listen you Lord’s Advisor’s arse!!’ she hissed, ‘I need you to back up and get behind this row of barrels, do you hear me?’

Finan blinked and looked up into her eyes, and to her relief he nodded, and shuffled back using his heels and uninjured arm to propel himself into the gap. She gently kicked at the soles of his boots and clicked her tongue as if he were a stubborn goat, to encourage him to keep retreating into the gap, but he was slipping into unconsciousness and suddenly just tipped onto his back, arms across his chest and laid still. The barmaid pulled off her ripped and bloody apron, balled it up and threw it into the gap, to land on Finan’s shins. She wriggled the end barrel, which was thankfully empty, to further obscure Finan’s hiding place from view, and then scuffled the hard ground where Finan’s blood had fallen and headed back into the inn.


	4. The Fyrd Arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhtred returns to Aylesburg with an army of farmers for Aethelflaed. The boys begin to look for Finan.

Athelhelm’s private cohort of men, distinguishable by their red cloaks and shiny mail, were slinking along the streets of Aylesburg, hunting for Finan.

Edward’s men, in a greater variety and colour of kit, were under no such orders and were mostly stationary at their posts across the town, sweating in the afternoon’s heat, gathered in small groups or stood on sentry duty at strategic points along the city’s walls.

And Uhtred’s men were outside the main gates of Aylesburg, heading up a fyrd of at least one hundred Mercian farmers, who were tired and thirsty and armed with very sharp farming tools.

The heat of the sun in this late afternoon was still making men in mail lethargic and Edward’s banner, placed on a pole on the ramparts, barely stirred in the afternoon breeze.

Uhtred was sat on his horse at the head of this line of men, looking up at Edward on the ramparts, eyes squinting against the glare of the sun. Athelflaed was nowhere to be seen, and nor was Finan, and a tingling thread of worry curled its way across Uhtred’s chest. Sihtric, sat on his horse next to him had also scanned the ramparts for Finan and he glanced across at Uhtred, his eyebrows raised in a question. Uhtred shrugged lightly at him.

‘Lord King,’ Uhtred shouted up at Edward. ‘I have brought your sister’s army!’

‘For the love of God,’ Edward cursed under his breath before shouting back.

‘Well, you have certainly brought my sister’s farmers Lord Uhtred’.

And with that comment the mood changed and the air seemed to grow thicker as Aethelflaed’s farmers, understanding the slur, started to bang their hoes and rakes hard into the ground, together as one group, producing a smirk from Uhtred as he turned to look behind him and then back up to Edward.

‘Lord King,’ the increasing noise required Uhtred to bellow, ‘They have come to honour the Lady Aethelflaed as the new ruler of Mercia, will she not come to the ramparts to greet them?’

‘My sister is not well Lord Uhtred,’ Edward shouted back from above, ‘I think this unseasonable heat has exhausted her, she is in her quarters resting.’

He then raised his head and his voice to speak to the fyrd lined up behind Uhtred.

‘But she will know of your support and thanks you for it,’ he shouted to the men of Mercia, as they continued to bang their iron tools.

And then suddenly they cheered and Uhtred’s face broke into a smile and Edward turned to his left to see his sister Aethelflaed move to stand alongside him.

‘Sister,’ Edward said with gritted graciousness and nodded his head at Aethelflaed in greeting.

‘Lord King,’ answered Aethelflaed as she rewarded the men below with a warm smile.

And then, to her fyrd below her, Aethelflaed shouted ‘Men of Mercia, I thank you for your support and I will feel safer and stronger in my first few days as your Lady knowing you are right here. So please rest here and we will bring you food and ale.’

She then turned to Edward, ‘Edward, I won’t bring these men into the town but you need to stand down your troops and we need to work together.’

Edward pressed his lips together, he’d been outmanoeuvred by Uhtred for the second time in a very long day. He nodded his acceptance of the situation to Athelflaed and turned briskly to leave.

As soon as Uhtred, Sihtric and Osferth were through the gates and dismounted, Aethelflaed was there.

‘I am worried about Finan,’ she said, and explained the situation from earlier on in the day. ‘Pyrlig tells me there are groups of Athelhelm’s men muscling about the city looking for him, I thought that Athelhelm had taken him but he must have hidden.’ She was wringing her hands as she spoke, ‘We haven’t been able to leave my mother’s rooms until you arrived, I haven’t been able to help him.’ She said anxiously, tears welling in her eyes.

As he listened, Sihtric’s hand flexed nervously on his sword hilt, his eyes sweeping the courtyard and streets beyond Aethelflaed’s shoulder, he bounced from foot to foot, desperate to be released to start the search.

Uhtred’s face was dark with anger. He turned to Osferth and Sihtric, his eyes glistening with rage.

‘We need to split, and we need to find Finan now! And stay out of sight of Athelhelm's men, I don't know what Edward's role is in all of this yet, but we know Athelhelm is our enemy and he has a lot of men in the town. I will go speak with Edward, see what he knows, go!’

And the three men split in different directions.


	5. Sihtric Finds Finan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sihtric finds Finan, who has lain hidden and bleeding for nearly the entire day.

Finan felt like he was floating in water, and he liked it. The pain in his body seemed to lessen if he gave himself up to this sensation. Sihtric was cursing him in Danish but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He could feel Sihtric shaking and pulling at his collar and his arm, but the Dane’s voice seemed to be coming to him through a blanket, it was distant and muffled. The Irishman could sense the urgency in Sihtric’s tone but couldn’t bring himself to respond. The desire to open his eyes and see Sihtric’s blue eyes staring back at him was a sudden sharp tug in his chest, and somewhere in his brain he vaguely knew that hearing Sihtric’s voice was a good thing, but he was being pulled back into the dark, and he wanted to give in to it, to carry on floating towards the blackness that would envelop him, if only Sihtric would desist with his shaking and pulling. 

Sihtric meanwhile was frantic. It hadn’t taken him long to find Finan, he had gone almost immediately to the inn, and as soon as he was through the door the barmaid recognised him and beckoned him over. 

Sihtric had physically lurched when she told him how bad Finan had looked and he had rushed into the yard, wrenching the barrels out of their neat line and rolling them away to reach Finan as he lay on his back behind them. 

He hauled Finan up into a sitting position, propping his back up against the wall, but even if he could have dragged Finan up onto his feet by himself, he couldn’t then get him single-handedly to a place of safety, wherever that might be. The Irishman was very pale, his chin on his chest, a sheen of sweat covering his face and arms, the breeches of his right leg darkened with blood and his right forearm wrapped in a bloodied bandage that was glistening with fresh red. 

Sihtric gently pushed Finan’s head back against the wall with one hand gripping the front of his hair. He tentatively slapped Finan’s cheeks.

‘Finan, come on, wake up,’ Sihtric whispered urgently, in his soft Danish lilt, tapping Finan’s pale cheek. ‘Please,’ he begged quietly. ‘It‘s Sihtric, we need to move Finan, we need to get back to Uhtred.’ 

He kept one hand where it rested on Finan’s shoulder and scanned around and behind him as he crouched in The Goose’s yard, assessing his options. From his haunches all he could see were ale barrels, some in shadows, some in sun. He was loathe to leave the Irishman alone but nor could he wait here and hope to be discovered by a friendly face whilst Finan bled out. 

Sihtric pressed his lips to Finan’s forehead, ‘I’ll be back,’ he said softly and he pushed himself upright and headed back into the inn. 

Sihtric approached the barmaid. The inn was filling up with thirsty men, both locals and soldiers, now that the tension had dispersed in the town, and the noise was raucous, the barmaid busy with filling jugs and cups with strong ale. 

Sihtric spoke quietly and cautiously, ‘I can’t leave him and I can’t get him upright. I know you have already helped us but would you please get a message to Lord Uhtred, do you know who he is?’

‘Was he the Lord of Mercia for five minutes this morning?’ she asked with an anxious smile, jug in hand. 

Sihtric raised his eyebrows wryly and nodded, the worry writ large across his face. The barmaid nodded towards a small girl at the back of the inn, gathering empty cups from the tables. 

'I will send her, she is quick and quiet, she will get a message to your Lord.' 

Sihtric looked unsure. 'She cannot be seen by any of the guards, some of them are looking for him.’ And he nodded back towards the door and yard beyond to acknowledge Finan.

‘She will find your Lord,' she said reassuringly, 'She is clever, she knows to steer clear of the red-cloaks, and no-one will pay her any mind.' 

‘Here, take these back to your Irishman,’ and the barmaid handed Sihtric the jug and a cup of ale and a few more strips of clean cloth from her skirt pocket. 

‘I am sorry I couldn’t do more for him, but I had that arseling’s guards in and out of here all day.’ And then she gestured to the small girl who headed over. She whispered to her and then the little girl nodded and headed out the street door of the inn and was gone. 

Sihtric returned to the yard and was shocked almost to a stand-still at his view of Finan slumped against the wall where he had left him, between the rolled aside barrels. He looked near death, the skin on his arms and face translucent, in sharp contrast to the crimson on his forearm and his thigh. As Sihtric approached he sent a prayer up to the Gods that Uhtred would be here soon. 

Sihtric knelt to the side of Finan and placed the jug and cup on the ground. Finan’s head was still leaned back against the wall, the weakening afternoon sun reaching into the corners of the yard to touch his dark hair and forehead. His eyes were shut and his breathing was incredibly shallow, Sihtric had to keep glancing at his face and chest to check he still sporadically took a breath. 

Finan’s injured arm laid slack across his lap, the blood spread stickily across his leather tunic. Sihtric gently reached for it and brought it to rest in his own lap, palm up. With two shaking hands, he could undo the bloodied cloth the barmaid had applied earlier. Finan stirred slightly, and Sihtric paused, staring intensely at Finan’s face, hoping he would wake. The Dane reached forwards and pushed some of Finan’s hair off his forehead but Finan didn’t move again. 

Sihtric waited until he had seen Finan take a shallow shaky breath before resuming his examination of the wound. The slash was deep and started a couple of inches above Finan’s wrist, running crookedly up to the bend of his arm. It didn’t look like it had nicked at any veins, but it was still actively bleeding, even now. It was the kind of wound a leather bracer was designed to protect against but Finan hadn’t been wearing his that morning. Nor had any of them, their day planned out to include the drinking of ale in the Goose to celebrate, and then more drinking of ale, perhaps at the other alehouse in Aylesburg, a safe, well-protected Saxon town. They had all underestimated the trouble that already sat inside the walls of the city, namely Edward’s impetuous bullish nature and the ambition of his most powerful Lord. 

Sihtric pulled Finan’s arm out straight to clear both of their legs, and poured some of the ale from the jug along his inner arm to clean the wound as best he could, using one of the strips of cloth to wipe away the excess blood. He used his seax to cut through Finan’s breeches and followed the same procedure with the gash in his thigh. He then set about binding both Finan’s arm and his thigh with fresh cloth, pulling the strips as tight as he could. 

Once his wounds were dressed, Sihtric resumed his efforts to get Finan awake. He poured the remaining ale into the cup the barmaid had given him and slipped one hand behind Finan’s head whilst holding the cup to his lips. Finan still didn’t stir. 

‘Oh, that’s no good Finan, come on,’ Sihtric pleaded, withdrawing the cup from his lips, his eyes a sea of emotion as he looked into the wan face of his friend. ‘Finan, can you hear me?’ Sihtric asked, his eyes welling with tears. He placed his fingers on the Irishman’s forehead and brushed an eyebrow with his thumb. ‘Please come back to me, come on, Uhtred is coming Finan.’ 

And then he heard the door of the alehouse slam open and he tensed for a moment, before relief washed over him as Osferth and Uhtred came tearing through.


	6. Getting Finan to Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finan is found by Sihtric and the boys take him to Father Pyrlig for patching up.

Uhtred rushed over to Sihtric’s side and knelt beside him. His eyes anxiously scanned Finan, he placed one hand protectively onto Finan’s knee, and he placed his other hand on the back of Sihtric’s neck and pulled him into him.

‘You did good,’ he whispered, and kissed the boy’s temple. He could feel Sihtric shaking, as he looked down at his bloodied palms, and Uhtred squeezed the Dane’s neck to reassure him. ‘He’ll be alright, we’ll sort this, we’ll make this alright again.’ Sihtric didn’t respond.

He turned to look Sihtric in the eyes, ‘Hey’, he said with more conviction than he felt, and waited until Sihtric had looked up. ‘I will sort this, I promise.’ And he pressed his forehead to Sihtric’s and closed his eyes for a brief moment.

Uhtred let go of Sihtric, but the Dane stayed, head bowed, leaning into him. Uhtred looked across to Osferth who crouched on the other side of the Irishman. Osferth took note of the bloodied cloth that Sihtric had discarded, the amount of blood on Finan’s tunic and breeches and he swallowed nervously as he pressed a palm onto Finan’s forehead. He didn’t need to be a healer to see that this wasn’t good.

‘He’s lost a lot of blood Lord.’ Osferth murmured as he gently checked how tight the bandaging was and how fresh the blood was that covered Finan’s clothes.

‘We need to get him into a bed, he has to be still so that I can stop this bleeding.’ Osferth told Uhtred in a low tone, the worry cracking his voice.

‘We will get him up and take him to Pyrlig’s rooms.’ Uhtred said decisively, prompting Sihtric to glance across at him.

‘What about Athelhelm?’ He asked, his brow furrowed in question. He made to stand up and stretch his back and legs.

‘I’ve spoken with Edward, and Edward is dealing with him,’ Uhtred said in a grim voice, looking up at Sihtric. ‘For now we still have the protection of the King. Though we’ll go quickly and quietly, through the stables, I don’t want to come face to face with any of Athelhelm’s men if we can help it.’

He stood and reached into his breeches pocket and pulled out some coins. Handing them to Sihtric he said, ‘Sihtric, go let the barmaid know that we’re taking him and give her these with my thanks.’

Sihtric nodded, quickly gathering up the jug and mug and heading back into the alehouse.

When he returned back out to the yard, Osferth and Uhtred had lifted a limp Finan and had an arm each pulled over their shoulders, and Uhtred had his other arm round Finan’s waist. Finan’s head hung down, his dark hair falling forwards. Sihtric drew his sword, and led the way through the rows of scattered barrels sitting squat in the lengthening shadows and through into the stables.

They arrived at Pyrlig’s door without incident, and Sihtric knocked on it urgently with the hilt of his sword. Pyrlig’s eye widened when he saw the four men stood there but he immediately pulled his door wide and stepped back to let them in.

The priest beckoned them into what was a monk’s sleeping quarters, with rows of beds along one wall and a hearth, cooking irons and several benches on the opposite wall. The air smelt of fresh rushes that had been recently laid on the floor and of old wood ash, cold in the hearth. The long room was pleasantly cool and lit by a row of generous windows with open shutters that ran high along the wall on one side.

Pyrlig was in these quarters by himself for the moment, and he pointed to the first empty bed they came to, a crucifix hung on the wall over the fleece-stuffed pillow.

Uhtred and Osferth manoeuvred Finan to the bed and between them they lifted him and laid him on it. He made no sound and did not move.

‘What in God’s name happened to him, who did this?’ Pyrlig growled as he stared disbelieving at Finan on the bed. ‘Does Edward know about this?’ He continued. ‘Has he,’ pointing at Finan, ‘told you how this came about?’

‘Pyrlig, my friend.’ Uhtred said, turning from Finan’s side and placing a hand on the priest’s shoulder, ‘We have all these questions too but right now we need to help Finan, I need you to help Finan.’ He gestured towards the empty hearth. ‘We need water boiled to clean the wounds and we need clean cloth, can you help?’ He asked.

‘Of course I can help.’ Pyrlig said, mollified, and he immediately began to get the fire started, sending Sihtric out with an iron pail for water.

Uhtred turned back to Finan and sat on the foot of the bed, watching as Osferth pulled off Finan’s boots and began to unlace his leather tunic. His fear for the Irishman coursed through his veins like iced water, and he rubbed the heels of his hands along the shaved sides of his head in distraction. Uhtred’s breathing was rapid and his mind was sparking off in all different directions, his palms were prickled with sweat. He needed to act, he felt more composed when in motion, with a plan, but he was in a town where he was unsure of who was a friend and who was an enemy.

He knew that men, powerful men, were still wrestling with the idea of a woman on the throne of Mercia, not least of all Athelflaed’s brother, the King. And he could guess that Finan had nearly bled to death because of some violence inflicted on him by Athelhelm. Uhtred could understand the opportunity for mischief that Finan being left on his own had presented the ealdorman, but he couldn’t get a complete angle on a motive. He could not tell what the next few days held in store, with either Finan or Mercia and he didn’t like not knowing. He did know that losing Finan terrified him, watching Mercia descend into a war with her closest ally was of no concern next to that.

He stood and leaned forward to help Osferth take Finan’s tunic off, to leave a sleeveless lightweight linen shirt underneath, less bloodied. The tunic’s leather was caked in blood, tacky red pooled in the lace eyelets and cloying up the laces, and it was all Finan’s, and the sight of it made Uhtred’s stomach flip.

Uhtred then reached for a pillow from another bed and busied himself by ripping the cloth casing into strips with his seax. His eyes were fixed on Finan’s face, watching that he still breathed, as Sihtric had watched earlier.

‘He needs to make new blood’ Osferth whispered, as if to himself, and he pressed gentle fingers to Finan’s neck, trying to feel a heartbeat.

‘We can’t lose him Osferth,’ Uhtred said softly, shaking his head in denial, ‘We can’t lose him.’

Osferth looked up at Uhtred, and then across at Pyrlig who was silently prodding tinder and kindling into a pile in the hearth, his jaw fixed in a hard line.

‘I will pray for him Lord, just as soon as I have persuaded these cuts to stick together.’ Osferth said grimly, taking the cloth strips from Uhtred. ‘And then we will need to get him to drink something, water or ale it will not matter, but he must drink.’

Sihtric pushed through the door then, letting in some warm dust from the street, a pail filled with water in his hands, which he set alongside the hearth. He glanced at Uhtred, who had moved to sit on one of the hearth benches close to Pyrlig, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands, and Sihtric then tracked straight across to Finan’s bed, kneeling beside it. He took Finan’s hand in his and with his other he clasped his Thor amulet around his neck, raising it to his lips to kiss it. He mumbled a prayer to the Gods, which earned him a sad indulgent smile from Osferth.

Uhtred looked sideways and took in the scene of the three men, and it constricted his heart. He had to will himself to calm down, to deliberately slow his breathing and push out the panic.

Pyrlig had coaxed the fire into some convincing hungry flames and he fed it with some sturdy logs, before setting up the cooking tripod and hanging the water pail over it.

Osferth stayed by Finan’s side, smoothing his short hair back with a gentle hand, as the water heated in the iron bucket, and once it had reached an aggressive boil he carefully decanted some into a wide rimmed bowl that Pyrlig had fetched for him. He fretted as he waited the few minutes until it was cool enough to soak a cloth into it. He then gingerly removed Sihtric’s bandaging from Finan’s forearm and hissed through his teeth when he saw the cut, which on being released from the restrictive cloth started bleeding even more readily.

Osferth’s medical knowledge amounted to a novice monk’s learnings over a few months of taking his turn in the kitchens and herb garden of the monastery, but Sihtric and Uhtred looked to him to get Finan through the night ahead. And he felt that responsibility keenly. He tried not to show fear in front of them both but he looked across at Uhtred solemnly.

‘I think this will need stitching Lord.’ He said ‘It’s deep and jagged and it’s willingness to keep bleeding means the sword might have reached a vein.’

Pyrlig looked up from the hearth, ashen. He had busied himself with housekeeping duties since the men had come to his lodgings, and was now heating a stew on the tripod to feed them. Stitching wounds was a battlefield problem, and didn’t always end up solving anything, sometimes making things a whole lot worse if the rot then set in. He glanced at Finan’s pale form on the bed. It was also bloody painful.

‘God willing he stays unconscious for now then,’ Pyrlig said gruffly, as he thrust the wooden spoon into the pot and wiped both his hands on his priest’s surcoat. ‘I know a healer woman in this town, she can stitch him. I will go fetch her.’


End file.
